


The Meaning of Nobility

by Liara_90



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aristocracy, Bisexuality, Drama, F/F, Lesbian Character, Maids, North Pole, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A generation ago, humanity annihilated the Grimm through a concentration of will never seen before or since, and the Remnant that emerged is vastly different than the one we know. A world where nobility of rank and nobility of character have two very different meanings.</p><p>This is the story of two souls, whose lives became forever intertwined through the changing of history. It is the story of Weiss Schnee, heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, and her handmaiden, Pyrrha Nikos. A story of loyalty, trust, friendship, and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Ice Queen to Her Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No man is a hero to his valet. This is not because the hero is not a hero, but because the valet is a valet."  
> -Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, _Lectures on the Philosophy of History_

"You have a ten o'clock meeting with Mr. Moss Gradient, whose political campaign your Father is considering financing. He'd appreciate it if you sounded him out for any glaring flaws prior to a more extensive vetting," Pyrrha called out, as Weiss busied herself in the bathroom. 

"He'd _appreciate it_ my ass," grumbled Weiss, as she fumbled about with a tube of lip gloss.

"Language, Weiss," Pyrrha chided, though the playful note in her tone was impossible to miss. 

"What, is ' _ass_ ' now on Pyrrha Nikos' List of Unladylike Cusses?" retorted Weiss.

"It'd hardly be appropriate for a maid to have better manners than her mistress, would it?" asked Pyrrha, as she preoccupied herself with making Weiss' bed, a sprawling four-poster with 1000 threat-count sheets and a headboard of carved mahogany. Weiss knew that there was something undeniably _awkward_ about having your best friend clean up after you all the time, and it made her feel a little guilty about making a mess in a way she never had when her servants may as well have been faceless automatons. But if Pyrrha didn't clean her room then somebody else would have to (and Schnees, of course, did _not_ do their own housework). And then it would be somebody else keeping her company in the ungodly hours of the morning.

 _That_ person, at least, probably wouldn’t be such a stickler for proper manners from a boss who'd had people fired and blacklisted for less.

"And what's after Mr. Gradient?" asked Weiss, strolling out of the bathroom in her underwear and leisurely crossing the expanse of her chambers to a voluminous walk-in closet. The fact that Pyrrha still politely averted her gaze as she did so was both charming and frustra-

 _Nope, don't even_ think _that, Weiss_. 

"That should take you until lunch. I spoke with Ms. Belladonna in the kitchens and she says the seafood this morning is looking particularly delectable, should you be so inclined." 

"Meeting with slimy creatures followed by eating slimy creatures. My how you spoil me, Pyrrha." Weiss selected a pair of slacks and a silk bow blouse. Normally Pyrrha would already have laid out her attire for the day, but there had been a flurry of last-minute changes to her schedule, leaving both uncertain as to what the day's sartorial demands would be. "Hopefully the new girl lasts longer than whatever-his-name-was. The man couldn't make Baked Alaska to save his life."

"All I've seen so far is that she's _very_ handy with her knives," answered Pyrrha, in her head re-watching the newest sous-chef dice meat with almost unnerving dexterity. But that was a mystery for another day.

Right now she had a _very_ awkward segue to make.

"And _after_ lunch," Pyrrha began, sounding the words out slowly as if they might startle the heiress, "your Father scheduled a meeting with you in his study." Pyrrha watched Weiss grind to a halt, the maid's eyes searching carefully for clues to her lady's undoubtedly tumultuous thoughts. For a few moments silence reigned, before Weiss resumed dressing herself, albeit rather mechanically.

" _Hmmm_ ," Weiss replied, a moment-too-slow, her voice that aggressively neutral tone Pyrrha knew she used when she was trying to stifle her emotions. "What is the meeting about?" she asked, the nonchalance in her voice just a _little_ too forced. Even alone with her closest confidante, Weiss instinctively prepared an emotional façade.

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you," replied Pyrrha, her voice appropriately remorseful. "This was scheduled by his personal secretary late last night. That's all I know." 

"A last minute addition?" Weiss mused aloud, as she buttoned up her blouse. 

"Spontaneity is not one of Mr. Schnee's more _prominent_ traits," Pyrrha tacitly observed, picking up a hairbrush as she did. Weiss allowed herself to be guided to a chair, while Pyrrha set to work combing her snow-white hairs. 

“No, it's not," agreed Weiss, a moment of disquiet flickering through her. Her Father was a slave to ritual and routine, his day-to-day schedule having barely changed in the past twenty years. He ate at the same time, bathed at the same time, slept and awakened at the same time, unfailingly, day after day after day after day. Weekdays and weekends were indistinguishable to him, holidays practically nonexistent. Weiss was acutely aware of how her own life had already been structured by him, the way he was surreptitiously fencing in her world by ingraining routine and inflexibility into her, like ruts in her mind.

The unease bubbling inside her vanished once Pyrrha began making her way through Weiss' hair. Pyrrha was as deft with a comb as she was with every other implement, the maid managing to undo the knots and tangles in Weiss' hair with both speed and tenderness. Weiss appreciated it. She _should_ have appreciated it because it shaved a few minutes off her morning routine - Pyrrha managed to clean and style her mane far quicker than she ever could have alone. She _actually_ appreciated it because it was usually the time when the two women would be closest for the entire day. Every so often Weiss would need help with the back of a dress or the straps of her shoes, but the hair-combing was their one unfailingly daily ritual. When Pyrrha's graceful fingers would slide between strands and brush against skin, gentle and artful and caring. Therapeutic, in a way Weiss could never bring herself to admit.

"So you believe the meeting is something your Father wanted kept secret?" asked Pyrrha, her words tugging Weiss begrudgingly out of her state of comb-induced-tranquility. 

"Now _that_ would be in line with his character," Weiss groused. "Anything else?" 

"You were invited to a garden soirée, though given the weather it seems you'll have an excuse to decline," continued Pyrrha, alluding to the storm clouds gathering outside her bedroom's windows. 

"We can't assume our luck will hold," replied Weiss, wearily.

All too soon her hair was combed and coiffed, Pyrrha having expertly arranged it into an off-centered ponytail that was Weiss' trademark look. The heiress sighed softly, aware that she no longer had an excuse to delay facing reality, and rose from her seat. 

"How do I look?" Weiss asked as she touched up the final elements of her outfit, fastening a small necklace around her throat, the one possession she considered too delicate to entrust even to Pyrrha's hands. Her maid had undoubtedly noticed Weiss' protectiveness over the only piece of jewelry she regularly wore, but Weiss was thankful that she had the discretion not to pry.

" _Almost_ as fashionable as I do," replied Pyrrha with that wry smirk of hers, just a little self-deprecating about how she wore the same uniform every day of the week.

"Oh _hush_ , I know how many young boys lust after a girl in that getup," fired back Weiss with a teasing grin of her own. That much, at least, was true. Nobody had ever accused her Father of changing with the times, much less pointed out that the uniform was almost comically anachronistic these days. Pyrrha's uniform, like most of the rest of the household's staff, consisted of a black dress that stopped midway down her thigh, where a petticoat flared out, with sleeves that went halfway down her biceps. White stockings and an apron gave the uniform a monochromatic scheme, and it was accessorized with a lacy choker and headpiece. On her feet Pyrrha wore black dress shoes with only a hint of a heel, lest she tower over everyone even more than she already did. How she managed to keep the uniforms always crisp and immaculate was a secret she'd never shared with Weiss.

"I can arrange to spend another night on the town if you feel like dressing up, Pyrrha," said Weiss off-handedly, trying to remember the last social event they'd attended where Pyrrha had had an excuse to be out of her uniform.

"That won't be necessary, my lady," Pyrrha quickly replied, bristling a little. Weiss twitched ever-so-slightly at the coda to Pyrrha’s sentence. Try as she might, her friend had a seemingly unbreakable habit of reverting to formalities whenever she felt uncomfortable. That Weiss was still one of the people who elicited such discomfort troubled the heiress even more. Servants and suitors might quiver as she passed them, but the Ice Queen had no power over her handmaid. Which meant whatever was bothering Pyrrha was something more… _personal_.

"I must have a dozen standing invitations to every trendy spot in the city," Weiss continued, struggling to maintain her breezy tone. She stood with her hand wresting on the doorknob leading out of her chambers, a bed and most of the room between her and Pyrrha, the maid conspicuously busying herself with some trivial task. “Errera, Junior’s, the Glass House, even. It can be an excuse to get you a new cocktail dress. Gods, it feels like it's been forever since I've done some shopping for you and-"

"My lady, you're going to be late for breakfast at this rate," interrupted Pyrrha.

Weiss frowned. Her friend's tone was neither the lighthearted scolding she used to keep Weiss moving from one engagement to another nor the warm and soft tone she used when there was no business to attend to. It was…

"Right. Can't have Father calling me out for tardiness, can we?" Weiss said, her mind still puzzling over an unease she could not finger. "I'll see you before I meet with Mr. Gradient?" Pyrrha grunted something vaguely affirmative in note, still fussing over some minutiae. 

Weiss crossed the threshold into the hallway outside her room, and as she turned to close the door, she saw Pyrrha's back was still to her. 

Breakfast did not sit well that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here I go, trying to write a story with scenes and an overarching plot like a real author. Anyways, your feedback is the only thing that keeps me sane, as always. Did the summary catch your eye? Did Chapter 1 give you a feel for the AU? Get a taste of the dynamic between Pyrrha and Weiss, and the complexities of their relationship this story is about? If yes - grand! If no/maybe, Chapter 2 dives a lot deeper.
> 
> It struck me while brainstorming that the under-loved North Pole, in-universe, actually has some legs to run on. In "The First Step (Part I)" Weiss's maniacal inner-monologue demonstrates that she thinks surprisingly highly of Pyrrha, and imagines an incredibly successful life with her. Just sayin'…
> 
> The three trendy places Weiss mentions are all at minimum tangentially related to Rooster Teeth media. And at least one is incredibly obvious.
> 
> I have no idea how to stagger a story. Send help.


	2. Birthdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, Backstory (Part I)

Weiss Schnee hated birthdays. 

There was no way to say that without sounding like a horrible curmudgeon, so Weiss had long since stopped trying. To be fair, she liked what birthdays _represented_ , namely being one year closer to full adulthood, to the status and respect that age would afford her. She just hated the elephantine ceremonies that accompanied every one of her milestones like a miniature coronation ceremony.

Not-so-miniature, really.

Weiss was seventeen, and her seventeenth's birthday was no different than her sixteenth, or fifteenth, or fourteenth. Birthdays might disrupt her Father's lovingly-unchanging daily schedule, but he retaliated by making each celebration a facsimile of the last. The same venue (Schnee Manor), the same food, the same speeches and toasts with only the most superficial of variances slipped in. The wine got slightly older, and a few names were added or removed from the guest list, but that was it. Strange to think that something could be both so celebratory and so dull, but there it was. 

Her own birthdays were worse than most parties Weiss had to attend, as on _her_ birthday she was inexcusably the center of attention. Which meant that she couldn't retreat into the privacy of her mind and run the clock down, no, she had to stand and smile and speak at all the right cues, for _hours_. And by the three hour mark it was only her surreptitious (and increasingly frequent) glances at Pyrrha keeping her from feigning food poisoning. She knew her friend was doing everything in her power to keep things running smoothly for her. Guests who'd had too much wine were politely but firmly escorted outside to get some air. Knowing glances were exchanged whenever a speaker rambled about 'the good old days' of the Grimm Wars. Pyrrha even fended off some of Weiss' would-be suitors, volunteering to _personally_ deliver their notes and love letters, thereby keeping them from pressing their confessions and poetry into Weiss' hands themselves. 

After spending the better part of an hour formally sending off her guests, enduring a never-ending torrent of chaste kisses and promises to return, Weiss was finally allowed to retire to her chambers, albeit after a short debriefing with her Father to make sure that no feathers had been unduly ruffled. The distance from the manor's Hall of Mirrors to her four-poster bed had never felt greater.

Pyrrha was already waiting for her when she returned, hands clasped politely in front of her, back straight, a warm smile on her face. It took all of Weiss' self-control not to let out an exasperated whine, so she settled on faceplanting her bed instead, still in a sequined dress that cost more than her maid could make in a year.

" _Pyyyyrrrrrha_ ," Weiss groaned, her voice melodramatically petulant. The fact that Pyrrha was the only person Weiss ever showed her exhaustion to just made it all the more cathartic. 

"I'd say that was a successful evening, wouldn't you?" said Pyrrha, sliding over to the bed and easing Weiss upright. Weiss grunted something in agreement as Pyrrha knelt down before her, sliding one heeled shoe off. "No declarations of undying love, no marriage proposals, only _one_ speaker who was slurring his speech…" 

"Mr. Lark got a little frisky during the dance," Weiss grumbled, though she knew that by-and-large Pyrrha's assessment was correct, as it usually was. 

"I'm sorry, I'll keep a closer eye on him next time," replied Pyrrha, though Weiss waved her hand airily, indicating it wasn't a problem that needed Pyrrha's personal attention.

Weiss knew it was just another aspect of her life where her own problems were a pale imitations of Pyrrha's own. The heiress might have had to deal with wandering hands and crass innuendo - a reality no woman in Remnant could escape, even her - but her status in society protected her in ways her servants never would be. The blue-blooded bachelor she'd just given a firm _shove_ to could very easily turn his attention to a young maid in no position to refuse him, to a girl whose word would be worthless against his. Pyrrha had been on the receiving end of predatory advances more times than she could count, a fact that filled Weiss with a cold fury. But whenever Weiss threatened to have a so-called _noble_ man drawn and quartered - or at the very least effectively banished from polite society - Pyrrha just flashed a rare and mischievous smirk, reminding the heiress that she actually had rather effective ways of ... _discouraging_... them. Her refusal to elaborate was as infuriating as it was tantalizing, leaving Weiss' imagination to supply the lurid details.

Weiss sighed, relegating thoughts of unwelcome hands and hungry gazes to the dark recesses of her mind. She turned her attention to this year's haul of birthday presents, which Pyrrha had piled like a dragon's horde atop the coffee table. "I swear, if I get one more diamond-encrusted snowflake I'm going to demonstrate that the Manor's hounds aren't just for show."

"Rather _apropos_ that everyone thinks _their_ special snowflake is _the_ special snowflake," agreed Pyrrha with a grin, her management of Weiss' jewelry boxes giving her insight into just _how_ unoriginal most gift givers actually were. 

"Honestly, I'd rather they just gave me cash at this point," continued Weiss, before letting out a decadent sigh as Pyrrha began gently massaging the soles of her feet. The one thing Weiss _knew_ she had worse than Pyrrha was the expectation that she wear heels three inches or higher almost every time she was in public. "It's not like I ever get gifts based on what I actually like."

"Well, that would require letting potential suitors get to know you more intimately," teased Pyrrha, thumbing Weiss' soles. "We couldn't have _that_ happening, could we?" 

"No," Weiss conceded, snorting softly at Pyrrha's joke. "Still, I admit it'd be nice if _once_ I got something that wasn't just lien in the form of rare metals. Even Father just gets me the same pearl-and-diamonds every year."

Weiss almost whimpered as Pyrrha slid away from her position at the foot of her bed, Weiss' aching feet already missing their massages. But her curiosity was piqued, and Weiss managed to shake off her fatigue and pull herself upright, spinning around to find Pyrrha rustling for something in the closet. 

"Pyrrha?" 

"Just a second, Weiss," called out the redhead, as she extracted something. For whatever reason, most likely terminal density of the skull, Weiss had _not_ expected Pyrrha to reveal a package wrapped in brightly-colored paper and a lacy bow. Her maid covered the distance to the bed in a few long strides before handing the parcel to Weiss with both hands, an uncharacteristic blush coloring her face. 

"I hope I'm not being presumptive," Pyrrha began, and for once Weiss was too flabbergasted to correct her. "But I wanted to get you something for your birthday. If you don't want it I can have it returned, it's not a problem, so please don't feel obliged to-" 

" _Pyrrha_ ," Weiss finally managed to interject, "…I never thought. Please. I'd be honored." 

The two girls were equally flustered by the time the package was in Weiss' hands. The heiress felt unusually self-conscious as she unwrapped the ribbon and tore into the paper, Pyrrha standing a foot in front of her, eyes wide with anticipation. 

" _Eleven Discourses on Individualism_ , by Eire Sylver," read Weiss, as the cover of a book was revealed to her. "Pyrrha, this is…" 

"I know he's someone you've mentioned wanting to read a few times," said Pyrrha, almost tripping over her words in a hurry to get them out. "And it's something you don't have in the Library and it would probably raise questions if you bought it yourself. I can keep it in my room if don't want it on your nightstand." That wry grin flashed, only to fade just as quickly. "But I mean obviously if I was wrong just tell me and I'll get rid of it right away. I'm not really interested in his politics so I don't want to force you to-" 

"This is a first edition," breathed Weiss, as she flipped through the book's first pages. "Do you know how rare these are?" 

"I have a friend who works at an antique books store downtown," supplied Pyrrha, though she was nervously playing with the hem of her skirt. "Apparently the owner didn't check the most recent valuations and I was able to get it at a steal." 

"How much was it?" Weiss asked, trying to sound casual and conspicuously failing to do so. 

"Weiss, it's a birthday gift, you're not supposed to ask those kind of things," said Pyrrha, her nervousness that plainly evident. 

"How many days of work did it take you to pay for this?" rephrased Weiss, the pretense of mild curiosity vanishing from her voice. The eyes of the Ice Queen bore into Pyrrha, demanding answers.

"Twenty… or thirty," Pyrrha finally confessed, rubbing the back of her neck as she did so. "Somewhere in that range."

"Pyrrha, are you telling me you spent a _month's_ wages buying your boss a birthday present?" _Eleven Discourses_ was now closed and resting on Weiss' bed, practically forgotten. 

"I'd rather think of it as buying my _friend_ a birthday present," Pyrrha whispered, the words on the edge of Weiss' hearing. "If that's alright with you." 

"Of course I'm alright with that!" snapped Weiss with an almost petulant stomp of her foot, as if annoyed that Pyrrha was nervous about formalizing their unspoken relationship. "What I'm _not_ alright with is you blowing your saving to spoil someone as rich as _me_!" 

"I don’t have a lot of expenses myself," said Pyrrha with a small shrug and a halfhearted smile. "Food and board are covered just for working here, anyways. And we always get a small bonus around our birthdays, per tradition." 

"Wait, bonuses on your birthdays? What… when was your birthday?" Weiss demanded, drawing herself upright. Pyrrha’s height made her damn hard to stare down, but Weiss was giving it a _really_ good attempt. 

"Two days ago," Pyrrha murmured. Weiss let out a noise that sounded a bit like she was being strangled. 

"This…. this _Wednesday_!?" 

"Don't worry, Weiss, I never told you," said Pyrrha hurriedly, an apologetic smile coming over her face. 

_And I never thought to ask._

The thought pierced Weiss' mind like a bullet, and for a moment she felt like a truly horrible person. If she had just forgotten her best friend's birthday that would have been one thing. An unusual slip-up for the heiress, true, but those mistakes happened, and could be easily fixed and forgiven. Pyrrha never struck her as overly-sentimental, in any event. But Weiss realized all-too-late that the question had never even crossed her mind, that she'd never bothered to learn the most rudimentary biographical details of the person she considered her closest ally. And that…. that was not a _small_ mistake. 

“Pyrrha, I’m.... I’m sorry,” Weiss managed to stammer out, small tears forming in the corners of her eyes, as if she’d been stung by a biting wind. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear it!” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” said Pyrrha, a small smile on her face. Weiss let Pyrrha clasp her hands and lead her back to the bed, their two bodies depressing a mattress far nicer than the one Pyrrha slept on. “Honestly, if I realized it would make you this sad I’d never have mentioned it.” 

Pyrrha’s words seemed to free Weiss from her trance of self-loathing, causing her eyes to snap up and lock with her maid's. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she practically hissed. The fierceness of her tone took Pyrrha aback, the taller woman recoiling visibly. 

“Weiss, I-” 

“Pyrrha Nikos, you’re the one person in my life, rightly or wrongly, I feel like I can actually _trust_. All my teachers, all my family, my so-called ‘friends’.... I have nobody except my maid.” She coughed slightly, and Pyrrha could hear the tears in her throat. “And I don’t want you to sully that trust by sugarcoating things that will hurt my feelings, or make me sad, or mad, or whatever. You have the right to your own private thoughts, of course, but...” 

“I think I understand what you’re saying,” said Pyrrha. She rested her hands in Weiss’ lap, a thumb playing lazily over her knuckles. 

“I knew you would,” replied Weiss, managing a small smile despite herself. 

She snorted, loud and unladylike, eliciting a small giggle from Pyrrha. Weiss scowled a little at that, but there was no scorn in the expression. The heiress pulled herself to her feet, going through the motions of smoothing out the folds and wrinkles that had already accumulated in her dress. 

“I feel like having some wine sent up,” Weiss began, her tone an ever-so-slight exaggeration of an aristocrat's drawl. “Patch Island ‘57, perhaps.” 

“Very good, my lady,” said Pyrrha with a smile, feeling a wave of relief wash over her as Weiss seemed to return to a more normal emotional state. She strolled over to the intercom and prepared to buzz the kitchens.

“Oh, and make sure they send _two_ glasses up,” called out Weiss, doing her best to make it sound like a throwaway line and not a phrase she’d been agonizing over for literally _days_. 

“ _Two_ glasses, my lady?” 

So Pyrrha wasn’t going to make this easy for her. What a surprise. 

“It’s rather poor form to drink alone, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“I certainly would.” 

“Hence two glasses for two diners.” 

“And may I ask who your partner will be?” 

“You may indeed.” 

_Ah,_ two _can be pedantic and annoying, Nikos_. 

Pyrrha cocked her head ever-so-slightly to the side, one of the few tells that she’d been momentarily thrown for a loop. “And who will be dining with my lady?” 

Weiss’ heart skipped a beat. “You will, of course.” 

The room was silent for several seconds, and Weiss swore the pounding in her chest was echoing through the chamber.

“Weiss...” said Pyrrha, visibly fumbling for words, “you know I can’t drink while working.” 

Weiss snorted at that, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. “You can if I order you to,” corrected the heiress. “And don’t play that ‘consummate professional’ card with me. You’re not supposed to gossip about my family or hold conversations on my behalf either, but you do that anyways.” 

“That was my polite way of saying that it’d probably be bad for you if word got out that you were sharing drinks with your maid,” clarified Pyrrha, a note of mild irritation in her voice. 

“Fine,” growled Weiss. “If you don’t want two glasses then order one and we’ll share. I doubt anyone will begrudge me some celebratory ice wine on my birthday.” 

Pyrrha, realizing that she’d exhausted every reasonable option, hung her head in defeat. She punched the code for the kitchen into the intercom unit. “Hello, this is Pyrrha. Could I have a bottle of Patch Island Ice Wine, the ‘57 vintage, and _one_ glass sent up to Lady Weiss Schnee’s quarters immediately.” There was a pause, and Weiss couldn’t help feeling a flutter of excitement that Pyrrha had gone for the more intimate option, even if it was only the lesser of two improprieties. “Thank you.” She tapped the intercom closed. 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” grumbled Pyrrha, rounding on the heiress. And from that self-satisfied expression on her face she most certainly was.

“You’ll have to consider it the first of several belated birthday presents,” said Weiss, practically skipping about the room. Pyrrha sighed, and contented herself with tidying up until another maid delivered the bottle a few minutes later, rolled in on a cart with a bucket filled with ice and a solitary crystal glass. Pyrrha made a vague ‘ _what are you going to do?_ ’ expression to her fellow maid, a girl even younger than she was, before closing and bolting the door behind her.

Pyrrha uncorked the bottle and poured a glass with a deft hand, swirling it slightly, before offering it to Weiss with her usual deference. 

“Nice try,” chided Weiss, folding her arms across her chest. “Happy birthday, Pyrrha.” 

Pyrrha sighed the weary sigh of a woman far older than herself, then raised the glass to her lips. 

“Well?” demanded Weiss, impatiently tapping her foot, as Pyrrha stared distantly up towards the ceiling. “How is it?” 

“Fresh and crisp, despite the vintage,” began Pyrrha, licking her lips contemplatively. “Honey, apple, and... apricot? A bit more acidic than I’d expect from this vineyard, but the nuanced complexity compensates for it.” 

The pause that followed was longer and more uncomfortable than either girl could have foreseen. 

Weiss managed to break the silence first. “One of these days," said the heiress, her voice unexpectedly quiet, "you’re going to tell me how you know all that.” 

Pyrrha swirled her glass with uncharacteristic detachment, before taking another sip. “It could be tonight, if you like,” said the maid, handing her mistress the half-emptied glass. 

Weiss sighed, and raised the glass to her lips, draining it. “Just because I pay you doesn’t mean I have the right to know everything about your life,” she said, the conflict evident in her voice. “I’m not going to pry into your personal life just to sate my thirst.” 

She raised the glass again, only to find it already empty. Pyrrha reflexively refilled it, and Weiss downed half a glass again before handing it back to Pyrrha. The pale imprint of her lipstick was clearly visible along the rim. 

“Friends share things, Weiss, even if it makes someone uncomfortable,” replied Pyrrha, taking another forbidden sip. The wine's flavor revitalized old memories in the cobwebbed corners of her mind, splashed color onto what time had faded to dull grays. 

“Well, I’m going to guess you don’t spend your paycheck on wine tasting courses,” said Weiss dryly. 

“No,” confirmed Pyrrha quietly, with an airy laugh from her nose. Her eyes flickered in Weiss’ direction, and the heiress thought she saw _invitation_. 

“So it’s not food and not rent. Rare books are a _onetime_ expense. Don’t tell me you’re stashing it in an account making a percentage point of interest per annum.” 

“...It goes home,” answered Pyrrha, skipping to the end of their game of Twenty Questions. “Or rather, to people who take care of home.” 

“And where is home?” asked Weiss, struggling to speak the words.

“Mistral.” 

And just like that, the pieces began falling into place. 

Mistral. The sight of the bloodiest battles of the Concerto Wars, a series of short and brutal conflicts that followed the dissolution of the _Pax Grimm_ as Kingdoms fought with one another to claim the lands freshly-cleansed of monsters. What began as a play for new territory soon escalated into a struggle for geopolitical hegemony. The chapters covering the Concerto Wars in Mistral, the slaughters and massacres, were the lurid obscenities of history books. And what _wasn’t_ recorded was that much worse. First famine, then plague, then drought, all atop a civil war so fractious and chaotic nobody could keep track of who did what anymore. It was a wasteland now, or so Weiss had been lead to believe, pillaged of all its riches, stripped of all its civilization. Only the near-complete collapse of Mistrali society had curbed the bloodshed, when they'd run out of Dust to fight with and any wealth to import even more. So decimated was their infrastructure that they couldn't manufacture even antiquated gunpowder rifles in any volume.

Pyrrha Nikos had been a member of the Mistrali nobility before the Wars began in earnest. Not in the same uppermost echelons as Weiss Schnee was in Atlesian society, but had they been born on the same continent they would have moved in similar circles. The Nikos family was on the ascent and Pyrrha their shining star, graceful and charming and _perfect_ in a way Weiss Schnee knew she never would be. 

Pyrrha’s family had stayed in Mistral after the fighting started, doing their utmost to stop the violence and broker a peace, however tenuous. They’d lost almost everything by the time they decided to send their daughter to Atlas, and lost what little they had left shortly after she arrived, alone and destitute. A distant family friend got her a job as a household maid, ensuring she wouldn’t freeze or starve with the other war orphans. That family had moved several years later, though their references had been sufficient to get Pyrrha a position in the Schnee Household. A couple of weeks on the job later, and Pyrrha had received a surprise promotion to Weiss Schnee’s personal assistant. The rest, as they say, was history.

The bottle was dry by the time Pyrrha had finished her story, her voice slightly hoarse, unused to talking in such long bouts, even to Weiss. The memories were old wounds now, too scarred over to bring tears to her eyes, but Weiss felt her own heart break all the same. 

Pyrrha, of course, wouldn’t allow Weiss the luxury of wallowing in pity, of treating her like a stray, of coddling her and promising that everything would be alright. Out of all Mistrali, Weiss was reminded, Pyrrha considered her luck to be among the best. But with almost nothing left in the world Pyrrha had no illusions that she could solve Mistral’s problems, not when warlords still ran rampant over fields still barren of crops. But she did what she could to help, because that was the only thing Pyrrha Nikos _could_ do. Even if that meant working as a maid to the Schnees, sending as much pay as she could spare to the few relief organizations still active.

And that, Weiss believed, was the reason for Pyrrha’s inescapable nobility. For the confidence of her pose and the certainty of her actions. Impoverished as she was, neither lineage nor lands to her name, she lived life with such clarity of purpose, such nobility of spirit that those traits would _inevitably_ manifest themselves, maid or not. In a chamber packed with royalty Pyrrha stood out like a flame in the dark. 

It was that night that the thought of inviting Pyrrha Nikos into her bed first crossed the mind of Weiss Schnee. The feelings that had slowly been germinating within her finally manifested as an idea, as a _desire_. Her bed was enormous, and even more monstrous when compared to the diminutive cot she knew Pyrrha was assigned. The idea that they could open up to one another like this, that they could be so exposed, only to clam up and part ways at night’s end... it felt _wrong_. For all her fortunes Weiss wanted nothing more than to spend the night bathed in the quiet, unyielding aura of her friend. 

That, of course, was not to be. Seventeen-year old Weiss could not have given voice to that thought, no more than Pyrrha could have accepted. As the night lengthened they found excuses to hold hands and brush skin, but if there was an opportunity to even hug Pyrrha then Weiss missed it. Pyrrha collected the wine bottle and its bucket of melted ice, preparing to leave Weiss in the quiet solitude of her room again. 

“I’ll... see you in the morning, Weiss,” murmured Pyrrha, as she slid open the lock on the heiress’ door. 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” said Weiss in reply, but by then the door had already closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it at Chapter 1, and if you've made it this far I'll say it again - please let me know what you think! I'm wondering if it's too slow a burn, but hopefully y'all enjoy Pyrrha and Weiss regardless. Very few things I've written have multiple scenes or a longer narrative like this story does, so it's unfamiliar ground. Doubt suddenly flared-up just as I was editing this chapter for publication, but I might as well see how the cards fall now.
> 
> Aaaand my inevitable rant on character interpretations. As of the events of Volume 3's "Fall" I'd say Pyrrha fits my personal definition of 'noble' better than any other character. Ruby and Co. put themselves in danger more often, yes, but Pyrrha most explicitly is willing to risk herself for the betterment of humanity. A lot can be said about the way she avoids confessing her feelings to Jaune throughout Volume 2, but you have to admit that there's something admirable about putting someone you care about before yourself, even if that hurts you in the process (I'm looking at you, "Burning the Candle").
> 
> Weiss' empathy levels are probably closer to where she's at by Volume 3 rather than how she starts in Volume 1. That's all I've got for now.


	3. Polar Crusade, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaune Arc! Or this AU's incarnation, in any event. Please don't leave!

Father had instructed for Weiss to meet him in his study, where he received guests he was attempting to convey intimacy to. Weiss herself always though he should just call it the 'playroom', because that's what it was, in Father's own kind of way. It was where he kept his carved-oak desk and his gold-lettered volumes, hand-drawn maps of forgotten lands and figurines of molded gold. Weiss herself honestly didn’t know whether he derived pleasure from these objects or whether they were just so many more status symbols. But they were one of the few things she'd ever seen him fuss over, to take some semblance of pride in displaying, which had to count for something.

Pyrrha opened the door for Weiss, keeping her head bowed in the picture of deference. Let it never be said that Pyrrha Nikos did not know how to play the part of the humble maid. Weiss, of course, was a thespian in her own right, and didn't spare so much as a sideways glance at her closest friend. Her Father was the kind of man who thought it _unbecoming_ to acknowledge the people waiting hand-and-foot on him, and expected his daughters to do the same. Pyrrha, mercifully, knew Weiss far too well to be unsettled when the heiress had to put on an occasional display of indifference.

The smell of old wood and older leather filled their nostrils as soon as they entered. Weiss didn't know how her Father stood it, unless the scotch he was always drinking had something to do with it. Her Father sat at his desk like he usually did, with such comfortable authority that there could be no doubt that he considered this his throne room. The second occupant was far more unusual, a blonde-haired boy around the same age as Weiss, wearing a suit he was clearly uncomfortable in and already visibly sweating.

"Ah, Weiss, how kind of you to join us," greeted her Father, in that patronizing tone of voice she knew was designed to off-balance her, to make her feel _small_. "I've just been acquainting myself with Mr. Jaune Arc here."

"How do you do, Mr. Arc?" asked Weiss in a tone that conveyed no warmth. Normally she would've curtsied when meeting a man of nominal importance, though her choice of pants for the day meant she was left extending her hand instead.

"Please, the honor is all-"

And then several things happened in short succession. Jaune Arc rose to turn and face Weiss Schnee. Then his right foot hooked the heavy leg of the chair he'd been sitting in. Unfortunately, he'd already committed to spinning about clockwise so as to greet the heiress, only his leg remained snagged in the chair, putting him irreparably off-balance. A moment later, the twin tyrannies of momentum and gravity sent him tumbling face-first into the intricately-woven carpet underfoot.

It took a lifetime of self-control, a dutiful upbringing, and otherworldly professionalism to keep Pyrrha from _guffawing_ at the sight. As it was she still let out a loud, barely-stifled snort, which she desperately prayed was mistaken for shock. Though only Weiss' upturned eyebrow suggested anyone had noticed the faltering of her poise.

"Please excuse me, I was so eager to meet you I practically tripped over myself," said Jaune with a grin, taking Weiss' hand in his and giving it an energetic shake. If he was embarrassed by his conspicuous lack of coordination there was no trace of it on his face, only a soft smile as he peered into Weiss' ice-blue eyes.

"More than ' _practically_ '," Weiss corrected, keeping her expression carefully neutral. He seemed harmless enough, minus the sweaty palms, but her Father never introduced her to anyone without reason. "Weiss Schnee, sir," she added, formally introducing herself.

"Ah, and my name would be Jaune Arc," declared the blonde, relinquishing her hand to offer a melodramatic bow. "Short, sweet, rolls off the tongue, ladies love it," he promised her, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I'm sure they do," replied Weiss dryly.

Pyrrha picked up on her disquiet as if it were being telegraphed. The maid stood quietly in a corner of the room, hands neatly folded in front of her apron, doing her best to be invisible. Normally the maids were dismissed with a wave of a hand once talks turned to business, requiring Weiss to fill her in with the details _post hoc_. But so far nobody gestured for her to wait out of earshot, and Pyrrha was content to stay. _Eager_ , even. What an Arc would be doing here…

"If you'll excuse me, Father, but may I ask what business brings Mr. Arc to our home?"

Jaune pulled out a chair for Weiss, which she sat in without thinking, before he took a spot beside her.

"Arc Armaments has been considering increasing the amount of Dust used in their next-generation weapons systems," began her Father, every word delivered in the same plodding, unhurried tone. He took a sip from his tumbler. "As such, I felt it would be prudent for our families to become more acquainted with one another. _Socially_."

Pyrrha watched the hairs on the back of Weiss' neck stand on end.

"I am aware of Arc Armaments research-and-development trends," replied Weiss, her gaze very carefully averted from Jaune's, who was staring straight at her. "Though I had not heard that they were looking to increase Dust concentrations in anything except strategic weapons systems."

There was a note of vague disapproval in Weiss' voice, which everyone in the room picked up on. Pyrrha knew Weiss well enough to know that the heiress was no pacifist, not really. She just considered most uses of violence to be an inordinately inefficient use of limited resources. It was a position Pyrrha had gradually realized she herself shared.

"Advances in defensive systems, both personal and strategic, have created the need for a response," her Father replied coolly. "We all have to keep running to remain in the same place, as the fable goes." Weiss grunted indistinctly at that.

"Anyways, Weiss," said Jaune, interjecting himself into the conversation with _gusto_ , "your Dad thought it would be a good idea for us to get to know each other, seeing as we're both kinda going to be running the show in a few years. Isn't that right, Mr. Schnee?" Now it was _his_ turn to make some vague throat noise, evidently off-put by the familiarity Jaune had assumed. "Anyways, I was thinking somewhere with _beaches_. Sun, sand, those drinks with the tiny umbrellas. Vacuo is pretty spectacular this time of year and I happen to know of some _very_ exclusive resorts."

Interstellar voids had nothing on the silence permeating the room right then.

"Father?" Weiss eventually asked, as if wondering if psychotropics had been slipped into everyone's croissants that morning.

"I think it would be an excellent networking opportunity," declared her Father. "And besides, it would be good for you to spend more time with boys your age."

Pyrrha and Weiss both did a double-take at that. It was so out-of-character for her Father that Weiss felt a brief moment of complete alienation. And Pyrrha knew all-too-well that while Schnee Sr. enjoyed showing his daughter off at balls and galas he was really no more eager to see her becoming familiar with young men than she was. "I've arranged for your schedule to be cleared for a week to allow you to properly…. _relax_ ," he continued, the word sounding foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue.

"But what about the ReNora Art Nouveau exhibition we sponsored?" asked Weiss, quite conspicuously clutching at straws. “I was supposed to provide the opening remarks!”

"Winter has agreed to attend on your behalf," her Father evenly responded, like a chess master comfortably positioning himself for the endgame.

"But Winter _hates_ modern art!"

"Well, we all make sacrifices when it's in the need of the Family, don’t we, Weiss?" replied her Father coolly. The subtext in his words was as clear as a gunshot.

"Very well," said Weiss, taking a few seconds to summon the Ice Queen within her. "When are you proposing to depart, Mr. Arc?"

"I was thinking tomorrow morning," replied Jaune, eager to get the conversation into marginally less awkward territory. "I'll have my private airship dock at Atlas Tower. Smooth, turbulence-free sailing the whole way, I guarantee."

"I don't get airsick," shot back Weiss, and from the way he tensed it was very clear that Jaune Arc _did_.

"It's settled then," declared the eldest Schnee, though everyone knew there really had never been much open for debate. "You." He jabbed a finger in Pyrrha's direction, causing the maid's head to snap upright. "Begin packing my daughter's bags for departure tomorrow."

Pyrrha nodded in acknowledgement and offered a polite curtsy, bending one leg behind the other with more grace than most dancers could manage. She wordlessly excused herself, sliding the door shut silently behind her.

Her mind was afire before she returned to Weiss' quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, the title is an amalgamation of the Pyrrha/Weiss ship (North Pole) and the Weiss/Jaune ship (White Knight), so kind of like how Ruby/Weiss/Blake/Yang is Pollination (White Rose + Bumblebee) this is....(trails off) Actually is there an established name for Pyrrha/Weiss/Jaune? I feel like there should be.
> 
> To Jaune Arc lovers/haters: yes, he's in the story, no, this is not a Jaune Arc story. I mean that neutrally. Mostly I'm just haunted with my self-declared 0/2 track record writing Arkos.
> 
> So this is where the fact that this is an AU starts becoming a bigger deal. That said, I try to keep the underlying character dynamics fairly similar. Pyrrha still likes Jaune, Jaune still likes Weiss, Weiss still dislikes Jaune. It's like a love triangle, if all the sides didn't meet. Or something.
> 
> Pyrrha's life is different than the one she's lived in Canon!RWBY. Her life with Weiss is going to shape the way she feels about Jaune. Point is, if you're worried about this becoming a completely generic Arkos fic: don't.
> 
> My inspiration for Jaune here is his earlier appearances, where he put on the occasional smooth fast-talker act a few times. Hasn't really made a comeback since, now that I think about it...


	4. Polar Crusade, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still neither Arkos nor White Knight.

In retrospect, "I think he's kind of cute," was probably _not_ the response Weiss had been looking for from her maid when she'd returned to her quarters. The irate tone in which she posed the question should've been clue enough. And while Pyrrha would regret not noticing the saltiness with which Weiss asked ' _so what do you think of_ Sir _Jaune Arc_?', she had to admit her answer _was_ the most honest one.

" _Pyrrha_!" Weiss cried out in shock, as if she'd just walked in on the girl snorting crystal Dust off the coffee table.

"I'm sorry!" Pyrrha reflexively apologized, rubbing the back of her neck as she did. "He's just… kinda charming…?"

"He's _kind_ of an idiot," retorted Weiss, storming about her room as if looking for a good place to lie down and sulk.

"I can live with that," said Pyrrha with a small smirk, enjoying the rare opportunity to rile Weiss up and feel not-terrible while doing so.

"My Father," began Weiss, retreating from one collapsing front to open up another, "must be hitting senility rather young if he thinks this is somehow an appropriate suggestion."

"I don't think it would be the worst thing in Remnant if you made a few more friends, and Mr. Arc seems harmless enough."

Weiss snorted, before collapsing on a long couch, kicking her feet up in a way she hadn't done since puberty. "I already have all the friends I need," said Weiss finally, her voice now far softer than her previous shrill outbursts.

"Weiss, I-"

Pyrrha took a small step towards her charge, a hand outstretched, only for Weiss to rather sullenly turn away, curling in on herself. Pyrrha hesitantly pulled back, her face awash with uncertainty.

"I'm not interested in making friends with young gentlemen," murmured Weiss, and for a moment her friend saw a spark of rebellion behind those cold blue eyes. But then Pyrrha shook her head slightly, as if she was understanding only half of what Weiss was saying. The heiress let out a tired sighed and rubbed her brow. "Never mind. It's just… why do you care, Pyrrha? Looking for an excuse to score some new beach clothes?" The words came out more spiteful than she'd intended, and Weiss regretted hearing them in her ears.

"Weiss, you know that's not-"

" _Of course_ I know you didn’t mean that. Gods, I'm sorry." The heiress let out a frustrated grunt, annoyed at her own pettiness.

"What I was trying to say," said Pyrrha, speaking as if treading through a minefield, "is that Jaune Arc seems nicer than your run-of-the-mill would-be suitor. You know he didn't glance at your chest _once_ that entire meeting."

"He didn't?" asked Weiss, momentarily off-put. Pyrrha smiled, Weiss scowled. And then the heiress embraced her inner craftiness, converting her maid’s admission into leverage. "Wait, am I to understand that you were watching him the _entire_ time, Ms. Nikos?"

"I…. no," Pyrrha retorted, blushing as red as her hair. Fingers curled around the fringes of her apron in a telltale admission of guilt. Pyrrha might be able to keep a secret from Weiss, but couldn't lie to her to save her life. Weiss smirked, counting down the seconds before Pyrrha's conscience won the struggle raging inside her. It was never a long wait. "Just… most of it."

"The humble maid lusts after the bachelor noble," teased Weiss. "You've been ready too many trashy paperbacks again. Next you’ll be dreaming up schemes of seduction."

"That would not be… _appropriate_ … for a woman of my standing" Pyrrha managed to stammer out.

Weiss rolled her eyes. "Of course not. That's why they're lurid fantasies. Gods, Pyrrha, you act like you've never enjoyed some private time in the shower." From the way her maid flushed red Weiss knew that at least Pyrrha wasn't _that_ pure. 

She changed tacks, but kept striking the heated iron. "So is _that_ why you'd like me to get all buddy-buddy with Jaune? Give you an excuse to live a little vicariously, maybe play the voyeur?"

_Aaaand_ Weiss belatedly realized she’d just overplayed her hand. Pyrrha bucked up, scowling disapproving. "You know I'd never try to burden your life for my own pleasure," chided Pyrrha, as she returned to packing Weiss' luggage. That she was tackling said task alone was testament to either her resolve or her foolishness, and probably both.

"I know," grumbled Weiss, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. "You're far too good a person for that. Better than me, at any rate."

"Self-pity is unbecoming in a lady of fine breeding," chastised Pyrrha, as she zipped up one suitcase and moved onto the next.

"Heavens no, do you think Jaune will find it in himself to overlook my glaring flaws." The sarcasm was practically dripping.

"I just think it might be good for you to give Mr. Arc a chance," continued Pyrrha, ignoring her mistress. "He doesn't have to become your closest lover, just someone you can stand talking to and spending time with."

"Other than you, is that what you're saying?"

"Not in so many words, but _yes_ ," said Pyrrha, turning to face Weiss as she folded the last of her shirts.

"Are you tired of me?" asked Weiss. "Am I grating on you?"

"No more than usual," growled Pyrrha.

"Then remind me of the problem."

"Because if you find a man like Mr. Arc than you can actually go places in public with him. Go to the theatre, the beach, a place with white tablecloths and candlelight." Pyrrha made an exasperated noise. "I consider you my closest friend, Weiss, but I cannot be all things to you. There are times when you will need friends that don't have to remain a secret from your Father. Friends who can sit at the same table as you without an excuse. Friends you don't have to worry about buying clothes for."

Weiss was silent for several moments, the weight of Pyrrha's words bearing heavily upon her. She fidgeted, thoughts gnawing uncomfortably at her mind, emotions bubbling inside her like a witch's cauldron.

"Is that why you were annoyed at me this morning?" Weiss finally asked.

"Maybe a little," Pyrrha replied, returning to her packing. "I love you, Weiss, but as much as it pains me I cannot follow you everywhere."

Those words shut Weiss up like no sentence ever had, leaving her speechless for the better part of a minute as Pyrrha returned to her quiet, efficient packing. Did Pyrrha even know what she said? Of course she did, she always spoke clearly and honestly. Was that why Weiss… … … felt the way she did?

When the heiress finally spoke again, it was with soft contrition. "Alright," said Weiss, letting out a weary sigh. "I promise I…. I promise I won't go _as_ hard on him as I normally would. For now."

Pyrrha _beamed_. A full-fledged, no-holds-barred smile, warmth and pleasure clear as day on her face. Her hair seemed to whirl like a flame, her eyes were shining emeralds. Weiss never wanted that look to fade.

"That's all I ask for," hummed Pyrrha, as she began packing Weiss' clothes with renewed vigor. "You know they say that variety is the spice of life."

Weiss groaned, pulling herself to her feet. "It masks something that is otherwise bland, or it preserves it from decaying for just a little bit longer?"

"To hear such sour words from the mouths of noblewomen. What are these times coming to?"

"And the servants are getting awfully glib, too," replied Weiss dryly. But Pyrrha just _hummed_ , content with her work.

Weiss surveyed the contents of the suitcases. She was bringing a sizable fraction of her wardrobe with her, because 'just in case' were words to live and die by. A range of dresses running the spectrum from cocktail to ballroom to little black. Skirts, blouses and shoes for every conceivable level of formality. Nightgowns, swimwear, bathrobes, skirt suits. Most of her makeup had already been packed, along with enough light reading to last till the next century. Everything was in place except-

" _Lingerie_?" declared Weiss, incredulously.

"Just a few articles," replied Pyrrha, completely unfazed. "Stockings, garter belts, those kinds of things."

"And the corset?" demanded Weiss, fury on the edge of her voice.

"Better to have it and not need it then need it and not have it," Pyrrha noted.

"I cannot _possibly_ imagine a scenario where that idiom would apply," growled the heiress. Pyrrha shrugged.

"If you can't imagine ever needing it, why did you buy _two_ in the first place?" asked the maid, with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew they'd just won an argument.

"You are _insufferable_ ," grumbled Weiss, storming off to the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. Have my night clothes ready for me," she demanded.

"Of course, my lady," replied Pyrrha, with that smile of perfect satisfaction that Weiss would never in a million years want to tarnish.

"Don't think that acting all submissive now is going to save you when employee reviews come up," teased Weiss. "A team of well-trained monkeys would have better manners than you."

"As you say, my lady."

_And she gets the last word. Typical._

Weiss closed the door to the bathroom behind her, undressing herself in the marble-tiled chamber. She'd forgone her traditional bath in favor of a more straightforward shower, in favor of its thundering downpour and cleansing torrent. Spinning the taps, Weiss waited until steam began seeping out of the glassy stall, spending the time staring at the mirror, as if it was the all-knowing magical artifact from the old fairy tale.

"You dunce," Weiss breathed, the rushing water drowning out her words. "I _bought_ those because I wanted you to see me shopping for lingerie."

Her shower was long and warm.


	5. The One Thing I Could Always Count On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, Backstory, Part II

Weiss and Pyrrha had an old story, kind of an inside joke that wouldn't really be funny to anyone but them, the way these things often were with friends. It dated back to shortly after Pyrrha Nikos had first joined the employ of the Schnee Household, and a teenage Weiss had been roped into dinner at a trendy night spot in celebration of a friend's sixteenth birthday.

' _Friend_ ' was perhaps too strong a word, at least the way people without noble lineages used it, namely to describe feelings of mutual affection rather than shared business interests or desirable social status. But the point was that Weiss had to spend the evening looking pretty and making nice, feigning an interest in the lives of vacuous scions and vapid heirs. That in it of itself was not a problem, it was practically the heiress' 9-to-5. But Weiss went nowhere without a chauffeur, a couple of bodyguards, and a personal assistant. _Ever_. The chauffeur could wait outside and the bodyguards were inconspicuous enough, but Weiss' personal assistant (or 'handmaid' as everyone inevitably called her' ) was a woman pushing fifty who would've stood out like a sore thumb in a party of teenagers doing their utmost to look fashionable. 

The heiress herself would have welcomed the opportunity to socialize without a servant-chaperone hovering just behind her, or at the very least used it as an excuse to spend the night amongst her books instead. But while her Father cared nothing for teenagers and their antics he couldn't _bear_ to think that there was a social event his daughter would be conspicuously absent from. And even _he_ knew how embarrassing it would look to have someone old enough to be Weiss' mother practically holding her hand all night. As a compromise they'd settled on sending along one of the new hires, a redheaded orphan about the same age as Weiss. She was polite and diligent, or so everyone said, and actually a better conversationalist than one would've expected from the hired help. Weiss conceded, begrudgingly.

At least the new girl was less likely to chastise her for ' _unladylike behavior_ '.

Weiss and Pyrrha properly met one another for the first time in the cavernous garage of Schnee Manor. Weiss had seen the girl about before - at nearly six feet tall and with flowing red hair it took an effort to miss her - but once changed out of the nondescript uniform of the manor's maids she was truly a sight to behold. Weiss was momentarily stupefied, as if her brain had difficulty reconciling that fact that the maid she infrequently glimpsed scurrying around the west wing was the very same woman politely waiting for her outside an armored limousine.

They rode most of the way in silence, Pyrrha's hands clasped neatly in front of her like she was terrified of damaging the all-leather interior. She seemed nice enough, Weiss thought, didn't cringe or wilt when spoken to like some of the more gun-shy servants. But apart from the unusual vibrancy of her appearance Weiss doubted she would have remembered the girl were it not for what happened after their arrival. 

One of the household's more senior staff, a strict thirty-something woman who managed the Manor's day-to-day operational expenses, had leant Pyrrha a nondescript red blouse and a pair of black slacks nice enough that she wouldn't be an eyesore for the aristocratic teens. The outfit had undoubtedly been chosen for its general plainness, so as to ensure that she didn't outshine Weiss and her _haute couture_ dress, but she had an allure nonetheless.

The chauffeur held the door open for Weiss upon their arrival, Pyrrha remaining a deferential half-step behind the heiress as they made their way into the restaurant, some bourgeoisie playpen called The Glass House that had been rented out for the night. There were maybe a hundred other revelers at the party, a cross-spectrum of old money and the up-and-coming, the carefree and the desperate, sycophants and sociopaths. It was Weiss' own personal Hell, torture by way of mind-numbing conversation with self-satisfied idiots, a purgatory of drunken flirts and what-they-thought-was-witty innuendo. 

The first person they ran into - or rather _were run into by_ \- practically collided with Pyrrha, before making a melodramatic show of apologizing and clasping her hand in his. 

"I'm _sooooo_ glad you could make it," he said, alcohol weighing heavily on his tongue. "Please have a seat," he continued, doing his best gentleman routine as he helped Pyrrha out of the light jacket she was wearing. "Your maid can drop off your coat with the girl in the back."

Weiss practically choked on her own spit as Pyrrha's jacket was forcefully thrust into her hands. To her credit Pyrrha had the good sense to act embarrassed, doing her best to clarify the situation and hurriedly extricate herself from it. Once the buffoon had found some other poor ladies to harass Pyrrha began apologizing to Weiss in earnest, seemingly sharing Weiss' sense of humiliation. The Ice Queen persona faltered for a moment, and rather then demanding that the girl be banished Weiss dismissed Pyrrha's concerns with a wave of her hand, writing the incident up as just one ethanol-fueled absurdity.

The two ladies made their way to a large banquet-style table, their host already too inebriated to intelligently acknowledge Weiss' arrival. With a tilt of her head Weiss gestured for Pyrrha to take a seat beside her. A breach of protocol, to be sure, but this way Weiss knew there was at least _one_ person at the table who wouldn't sound like a sailor on shore leave.

It was around that point that Weiss began noticing something _strange_ about the way Pyrrha composed herself. Subtle things, Weiss noted: the deftness with which she unfolded the silken napkin over her lap, the practiced ease her silverware sliced the meat, the way she somehow made sitting ramrod straight look perfectly natural. 

Pyrrha's professional responsibilities for the night were both straightforward and pretty limited. The majority of them revolved around keeping hold of a large purse stuffed with cosmetics, hygiene products, stain removers, a change of shoes, painkillers, and just about anything else Weiss might conceivably need to get through a night of socializing. In the event that someone attempted to slander Weiss' good name or impugn on her honor, Pyrrha would vouch for Weiss' personal integrity. In the event that somebody got a little too "friendly" (Weiss included), Pyrrha had instructions to discreetly extract her back to the limo.

Her responsibilities most assuredly did _not_ include conversing with anyone more than the absolute bare minimum to do her job, which was what made the next few hours even more interesting. More than once some too-rich-for-his-own-good kid would introduce himself to Pyrrha, only for the girl to respectfully note that she was but Weiss' handmaiden, not the other way around (as at least three more guests erred). And even after the _faux pas_ of speaking to a lady's servant rather than the lady herself had been made they _still_ kept talking with Pyrrha, and most unbelievably she kept talking back. Pyrrha was polite, tactful, composed, unflustered. Which was more than Weiss could say for herself when dealing with a room full of loud and drunken teenagers. About halfway through the dinner the heiress murmured to Pyrrha that she didn't need to try to try to bring Weiss into her conversations, that she was perfectly fine dwindling away the hours until she could return home without facing her Father's inquisitive glare.

A respectable amount of time later - Weiss having imbibed only enough to take the most grating edges off the evening, and Pyrrha none at all - the heiress signaled for them to depart, having conversed with the people she absolutely _had_ to and otherwise used Pyrrha as the conversational equivalent of bulletproof glass. Their time in the fresh air of the night was all too brief before Weiss' bodyguards ushered them into the limo, with it's artificial chill and mechanical purr.

They sped through the darkened streets, the privacy barrier separating the two girls from the driver and bodyguard, a subtle tension filling the car. Pyrrha seemed to be steeling herself for something, fortifying her resolve, and for once Weiss was patient enough to wait, to see what this oddity of a maid was psyching herself up to say.

When Pyrrha finally spoke, shattering the silence, there was resolve in her voice, even if Weiss could catch the edge of fear. "I'd like to say," began the maid, "that I apologize for overstepping my duties tonight." Every muscle in her body was tensed, as if she was waiting for a blow from the heiress. "I did not mean to embarrass you by assuming so… _conspicuous_ … a position, my lady."

The words left Weiss genuinely stunned. She'd entered the limo feeling relieved, _happy_ even, that a night that had promised excruciating dullness and idiocy had been, well, _fascinating_. Watching Pyrrha Nikos at work had been like watching an athlete at their prime, a _virtuoso_ with their instrument. Weiss would've been tearing her own fingernails off if she'd had to converse with drunken plutocrats for half as long as Pyrrha did, but the maid's expression of polite engagement, her tone of respectful interest had never once faltered, even appeared to Weiss' experienced eye completely genuine. But before Weiss could finish processing her thoughts Pyrrha began speaking again, her speech a touch slower than a ramble. "I know that for jeopardizing your social standing you would be well within your rights to release me from your service, my lady, but I swear I-" 

" _Pyrrha_." Weiss called out the name like a bark, the first time she'd spoken it aloud. The name felt strong and forceful in her mouth, as if the word was inherently authoritative, _martial_ even. The redhaired girl locked onto her, mouth parted, emerald eyes wide and glistening. It was rare enough that a member of the Schnee family even _knew_ a servant's name, let alone deigned to use it. Weiss had left the limo's interior lighting off, and with the heavy tint of the windows only a trickle of moonlight illuminated them. "I'm going to say this exactly one time, so I trust you are paying attention?" 

"Yes, my lady," replied Pyrrha, her voice a hurried whisper. It was strange to think that the woman she'd seen hold conversations on classical art theory and trends in commodity prices (however inebriated her partners had been) could be so meek, so off-balance. It was…. _wrong_.

"You did something very strange tonight," Weiss began. She knew her tone was going to sound stricter, _angrier_ than she intended, because that was simply how she always talked, and the Ice Queen's reputation did nothing to mitigate that. So she had to cut to the chase. "You held conversations with people who should have been talking to me." Weiss could see Pyrrha practically flinch at those words. "You drew attention away from me. You provided me with unsolicited advice as to what I should say to several guests." Weiss paused for several seconds, the words on the tip of her tongue so rarely used except reflexively. " _Thank you_." 

"My lady?" Pyrrha's glanced up, as if doubting that she'd heard Weiss correctly. 

"Pyrrha I…" She couldn't look at Pyrrha as she spoke, so turned her gaze to the shattered Moon overhead, veiled by a thin layer of clouds. "I _hate_ this." Pyrrha said nothing, which Weiss was wordlessly thankful for. "Last year I had three hundred and thirty-five social engagements in my calendar. Balls, galas, dinners, meetings, whatever. And that's not counting the literally innumerable ' _casual_ ' meetings I have on a literally daily basis. I'm my Father's ' _crown jewel_ '," she snorted at that, "and he likes to show me off at every opportunity. To business partners, to politicians, to future suitors… I'm pretty sure the only reason he keeps me educated is so that I make a better ornament. He may call me an heiress, but I know he-" 

Weiss abruptly stopped herself, halting a thought she didn't dare have even in the privacy of her own mind, let alone with a servant bought and paid for by her Father. She knew she was being dangerously honest, _reckless_ even, but there was something… 

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Pyrrha?" Weiss asked, returning her gaze to the young woman's face. 

"I… believe so, my lady," said Pyrrha, her voice still soft but far less meek. 

"Pyrrha what you did back there…you kept me sane," Weiss admitted, fidgeting uncharacteristically as she did so. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that these types of engagements fill me with a kind of dread. I'm not sure how exactly you did it… how you look so refined and graceful and calm even when surrounded by idiots… but it gave me a bit of strength. To know that I wasn't the only sane person there. Because if _you_ can deal with this then _I_ certainly can." 

"Thank you very much, my lady," said Pyrrha, a smile of brilliant radiance lighting up the car. "If there is any way I can assist my lady I would be honored to help." 

"Well…. there is _one_ thing…" Weiss murmured, as if embarrassed with the idea herself. "I'd like… I'd like to offer you a position as my personal handmaiden. The pay's really not much better, the hours are a whole lot worse, and it's probably a lot more stressful than just cleaning-" 

"My lady I accept," said Pyrrha, only belatedly remembering that it was impolite to interrupt and blushing furiously. 

Weiss let out a faint laugh, and it sounded strangely beautiful in Pyrrha's ear. "There's one more thing," said Weiss. 

"My lady?" 

"No more of _that_ ," demanded Weiss, one finger pointing accusingly at Pyrrha. "At least not in private. I want there to be _one_ person outside of my immediate family who remembers that my name is Weiss. Understood?" 

"Yes… _Weiss_ ," said Pyrrha, a ghost of a smirk playing across her face. 

And the heiress had to admit that she liked the way her name sounded on those lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the rest of the story the actual plot will take on increasing importance, so this is perhaps a natural conclusion to the opening arc. I've already written the next chapter and have a pretty solid outline for the rest of the story, so hopefully it comes pretty quickly. From personal experience I know the risks of posting half-completed works, but I like to live dangerously. So now's the time for comments/suggestions/ideas/feedback.
> 
> I agonized far more than I should have whether to make this the first or second backstory chapter (this was Chapter 2 for the longest time). But I felt what-is-presently-Chapter-2 was needed earlier in the story (instead of back here) to give a better feel for the North Pole relationship and the world they live in. I dunno. If anyone has experience with those kind of plotting issues please drop a comment.
> 
> Yes, I'm appropriating another RWBY ship's lyrics for the chapter title. Yes, I feel kind of bad. No, not bad enough to change it.


End file.
